


O span of youth!

by paintbox (imstillprettyodd)



Category: Led Zeppelin
Genre: 1970s, Affection, Beards (Facial Hair), California, F/M, Hand Jobs, Inspired by Poetry, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Poetry, Showers, i hope this makes sense, it's been a while since i've read him, suddenly whitman is on my mind, truly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2020-12-28 03:13:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21129818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imstillprettyodd/pseuds/paintbox
Summary: ever-push'd elasticity!Monica savors the last day before Hawaii.





	O span of youth!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladygrange](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladygrange/gifts).

Good enough to try. Good enough to steal and to keep. The day sits still like a breath half-way flushed into the lungs; halfway flushed into Monica's lungs.

The bed sheets dip and crumple beneath the weight of her knees. Jimmy's simple back is bare, the towel soft and flat across his thighs, the curls of his hair clumped, wet, dripping with droplets that Monica catches on her finger and rubs into his skin.

The last day before Hawaii: a heavy week. September is humid and California is humid and Monica's sweating at the temple.

Her arms loop around his neck, hands grasping her forearms. She leans to get a better look of his fingertips pinching pages. Black printed words and the ridge of tendons. 

"I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,

I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,

If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles."

_If the verse is done, come wrap around me._ But the words don't find their way from her mouth. She leaves her hold for his face and the coarse, sprinkled hair. Her fingers curl and search until her knuckles brush the sharp chin she remembers from last summer.

"I hate this month," she presses herself to him. Her warm, flushed chest moves to his cool back. Their skin is equally damp and magnetic and sometimes she'll try to line align herself perfectly with him. So that her ribs are touching his. Ribs to flatten clay.

Jimmy closes the book. "I know. You tell me all the time." He unstrings himself and steps away to her suitcase, stuffs the hardback beneath her clothes.

"To remind you."

When he turns and looks at her, kneeled on the bed like some praying saint, she forgets her space. Her heart pumps dark red blood. It asks the question, _Where did he come from?_ Window light filters and catches among the dry fly-aways of his hair and the gaze softens. Each day feels like the first sight of him. But this one is unbroken, undocumented, save the touch and the weight of his cheeks which lift as if he's reading her mind. Jimmy steps forward. 

The carpet muffles his footsteps and the length of his body teases Monica's palms. She likes to hold him and find the space above his hips: soft flesh that no one else gets the pleasure to observe. Her touch begs for it. And a whisper-sigh leaves when her fingertips brush a hint of skin. He lets her play and even stands still when her fingers lower to the knot of his towel.

"And remind me..." he places his hands on his waist, above the cotton, above Monica's slow work. "...your reasons for abhorrence."

The towel drops and folds with a satisfying slump at Jimmy's feet. Her gaze travels his legs, the hair wet against the flatness of his shins, the juncture of his thighs, and ends again, past the wholeness, at his face. He's framed by the dark color and the bare wash of his forehead is intercepted by a straggling strand. Monica tilts her head to the side and decides she likes these tight curls. She gestures him forward. He is already aroused. 

"The heat is too much. It stays and seeps because the rain won't let me sweat it out. And it's the going back to everything. It's the end." Monica settles onto the mattress. She's let her hair grow so long that it brushes the bedsheets.

Jimmy follows and his dark eyes, silent mouth, expanding diaphragm give her the permission to lead. To have.

Her pace slows. She navigates him like a private sculpture. Palm to rounding thigh, fingers curving at the back of him to the tight span of his lower back. Monica tastes his flavor through touch. And takes the seconds with a closed breath. He offers her a wrist and the quiet delicacy of it. She opens her mouth to the bone and sucks on the round joint, receiving his tone of mint wash. That clean water taste. 

Monica reaches blind between his legs. It takes his grip of her hand to guide her fingers to the right place. She curls her hold around, gathers wetness at the tip, and pulls a noise from him with the first drag of her hand.

"The end," he whispers. "But not really. There is the rebirth afterwards. It requires," an intake of breath, "patience."

Her tongue makes a final swirl over the raised bone and her lips, reddened with effort, bring kisses to his knuckles. "I forget the cycle. I like you both ways, Jimmy."

"Both ways. Hmm?" Jimmy's hips cant slight to her rhythms. Each movement brings his knees to the bed. 

A wash of heat envelopes and sinks through her body in response. Monica's folded and pressing at his pelvis. Somewhere, there are people having late breakfast and coffee. But here, Monica is pleasing Jimmy and all she sees are the veins at the back of his hand. She slips his pinkie finger between her teeth, brings his hand to her face until the heel of his palm cups her chin, bites her chin as her grip squeezes him. 

Monica leaves his digit with a path of saliva and glances at him above her. His eyebrows are knitted and his lips are parted as if in a show of confusion. She drinks the image up and stares until his eyes meet hers and his chest wavers. His unsoiled left hand curls against his thigh. Monica licks her lips. "Sweating and rushed right from the stage and fresh-faced, like this, with me."

His breath leaves and Monica wants to take the sound up and keep it in her own throat. But instead, she focuses her motions and corrects their sloppiness, holding herself up from the mattress. She craves a repeat of their first night back together with folded limbs and his face on hers where the coarse hair brushed her cheek and neck. Like sweetener, a settling hand meets the back of her head and parts her curls. Jimmy's wet fingers move those dark strands from her bare shoulders and bring her forward. Her mouth opens with knowing and her grip falls to grab his thighs. He sighs, guides her, pushes past her lips with a full completeness. 

Monica shuts her eyes as Jimmy readies himself. The light from the window hits the side of her face. It turns the dark beneath a warm, uncategorizable color. 

His voice is for her; it slides the silence away as he whispers: "I almost forgot." She fills the rest for him, _how good it is to be with one another. How hot her mouth is. How her hair smells heady of dark flowers. _

The body, the only body she cares enough to memorize, dips to her and her mind ripples with a realization as his fingers brace her skull. Jimmy was always teacher. He taught her the movement, the acceptance, the craving, the want. His flesh is warming from the sun. She's sure that if she opened her eyes, she'd see his hair illuminated brown by the light. She'd see the green eyes shift from darkness and his blood surfacing to his cheeks like a breathless swimmer. In the moment, there's the water, the sun, his bones and muscles, and she is here and she could call this verse if she can maintain the rhythm. 

Monica wants to see the beach again before they leave. Jimmy comes in her mouth and her lids flutter from the heat. His thighs twitch beneath the tips of her digits and his voice sends her name to the air. She opens her eyes to watch his unraveling and lets him go, decides not to tease with her tongue, though she swallows and cleans beneath her bottom lip. 

Jimmy sinks to the bed and spreads upon it. Monica's calves prickle with a loss of blood flow as she leans to him and drapes over his sweating chest. His scent is pheromonal; it surprises her with its intensity. She brings one leg over him and it falls in the space between his own. Her breasts settle against his side. The wispy strands on his chest are her favorite to touch and she spends their brief silence with her fingers moving, pinching. 

She remembers: "Can we see the beach before we leave tonight?" 

His pulse is slowing. Her touch sets above the hollow between his collarbones, mixes in his beard, before tripping to his lips and taking the kisses he gives. "We'll have beaches tomorrow. All beaches." 

Those lips are the softest she's felt. "I know. But while we're here. Before we have to change."

"Before we have to change," he repeats. "You're so stuck in your ways." His nibble to her middle finger makes her smile. 

"My flaw." Monica readjusts to bring her face closer to his and her palm slides to hold the side of his cheek. A joining of lips. "You need to remember to buy a camera for the road."

"Yes, for memory's sake. You're getting repetitive, you know?" 

She rubs the hair-thin wrinkle developing between his brows. "Another flaw." This time, she allows his tongue to explore hers. Pulling away holds an effort in itself, but her eyes follow the path of the hair on his face. If he ever decides to shave, she'll prefer to have this scene to draw from: haloed mane and sleepy eyes, red lips, flushed cheeks. 

Jimmy smiles small with just a hint of teeth. "Too many to count." And Monica stores her wish in the shade of his irises. 

**Author's Note:**

> Lines and title from Walt Whitman's "Song of Myself," 52 and 45, respectively. 
> 
> To ladygrange, I find this rare musicality in your art that continues to awe me. Seriously, I'm left audibly gasping sometimes. You force me to attach to each word and I love it -- wouldn't have it any other way! Your intelligence and commitment are special jewels and I am so honored to get to see them and share this space with you. This time, with all my listening and reading and research about JP, would be unfulfilled without your gorgeous additions. They truly mean so much. And lastly, I hope I can articulate my appreciation in this gift to you, bearded for your benefit!


End file.
